


But Who's Counting?

by DirectorShellhead



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, and Tony doesn't understand the concept of personal space, in which Steve is awkward around women, it's a problem, stupid Christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirectorShellhead/pseuds/DirectorShellhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a holiday gala at Stark Tower, and Steve is a little preoccupied with just how well Tony knows how to work the crowd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Who's Counting?

Thirteen people.

Tony has kissed thirteen people, and the Stark Industries holiday gala hasn’t been underway for even three hours yet.

Fourteen.

Not that Steve is counting.

He just so happens to notice because he’s been pinned to the same corner by a gaggle of socialites for the better part of the evening, and in the interest of being a gentleman, he’s trying his damnedest not to stare too much at them, all sequins and cleavage and glossy lips; while he doesn’t think their attire is precisely in the spirit of Christmas, it is, he supposes, as festive a display as any. Maybe that’s a thing now, for women to walk around scarcely half-clad at black tie functions like this, maybe bare is the new black, and it’s all well and good, he’ll adapt to it as he has to every other modern consternation, except he’s having a very hard time figuring out what to do with his eyes and his hands as they chatter at him and sweep their fingertips over his shoulders, down the lapels of his tuxedo, along his cuffs, lacquered nails flashing in the low light.

So he smiles and nods, glancing over at Tony too often instead, because Steve doesn’t think it’s possible to stare at Tony in a way that wouldn’t just fluff the other man’s ego and push his grin a tick wider. Besides, Tony’s not paying any attention whatsoever to Steve, so what does it matter if he watches a little more intently than he should? 

Fifteen—another man, perhaps the third of the night ( _he’s **not counting**_ ) and Steve swears that this time, he can see the wet glint of their tongues, Tony’s and this other man’s, as their lips part, then puzzle back together again. 

Steve isn’t even shocked anymore, not really, he’s just…

(Fascinated.)

Curious.

The guy whispers something close in Tony’s ear, and Tony laughs, head tipped back and eyes crinkling, as he claps him on the shoulder. Steve can hear the sound of it from across the room, rich and full of humor, over the buzzing din of chatter and the syncopated strains of the jazz ensemble. He curls his fingers into the palms of his hand because suddenly they’re itching for charcoal and rough-textured paper to capture the angle of Tony’s jaw, the bold precise lines of his goatee framing the wide, easy curve of his smile.

Of course, Tony catches Steve’s gaze lingering overlong and arches a brow at Steve, bemused, as the other man gives his elbow a squeeze and then slips back into the crowd. Steve resists the overwhelming urge to look away too quickly and busy his hands; he forces himself to give Tony a small smile and nod first, though it feels tight, unnatural.

The banter of the partygoers around him is suddenly grating, oppressive, and he wants to excuse himself from the throng of women but can’t seem to get a word in edgewise. “Ladies, if you’ll just,” he begins, but they press in closer, collectively, possessively, and he hasn’t got the heart to push through the throng to get away. He sighs and rakes a hand back through his hair, nodding along all over again as the frosty blonde to his left launches into another animated bout of gossip.

When he glances back at Tony, because it has apparently become an unbreakable habit at this point, Tony is already regarding him and his mouth quirks up in a grin that looks an awful lot like a challenge. Steve’s confusion must show, because Tony cuts his eyes up pointedly to the top of the arched entryway where he’s been standing and then back at Steve.

There’s a bunchy sprig of mistletoe hung from the center of the arch.

Well, it explains all the kissing, Steve supposes, if not the frankly superfluous use of tongue.

And then, his skin goes hot; Steve can feel the prickling flush creep from his brow all the way down into his collar, because Tony winks – actually _winks_ – at him and he swears it’s not just a trick of the light, Tony had actually licked his lips in some kind of lascivious invitation, as if Steve would possibly…

He turns back to the blonde, takes a step into her space and picks up the thread of conversation awkwardly but with fierce determination; when he offers to go get her another drink from the bar, he makes sure not to sneak a peek over his shoulder at the entryway where Tony holds court, kissing apparently every single one of his subjects in succession as they pass through and begging mistletoe, of all things, as his excuse.

At least, this is what Steve assumes he’s doing, because he doesn’t watch any longer, doesn’t study the way the muscles of Tony’s throat flex as he leans in or the way his hands ghost over pair after pair of shoulders or the way his eyes trace covetously over each set of lips that he then presses against his own.

Sixteen.

(Damn it.)

Fine.

It’s a lie, that Steve isn’t keeping count. He’ll admit it. 

But he’s not counting how many partners Tony snags, not if he’s being honest.

No, he's counting how many times he wishes Tony were kissing him instead.


End file.
